Loving Lady Marcia (32 page)

“You’re like a flower,” he said, teasing her heated flesh, “blooming just for me.”

And she felt that way, too, as if he were her sun and she was open to him, basking in the heat of his adoration—free, beautiful, and alive.

As she was about to shatter around his teasing fingers and mouth, he stopped everything and looked up at her with his warm, brown gaze. He grinned, the line of his jaw strong and true. “Shall I go on?”

She bit her lower lip. “Yes, please,” she whispered.

“I will in a moment.” His voice was like sand. “But first, we have to go somewhere.”

“Where?”

“Upstairs to one of the guest rooms.
You
first.” He patted her rear.

She couldn’t help but laugh.

He lit a candle near the stairs and left it there to light their way. All the way up the steps, he kept grabbing her bottom, making her laugh. At one point, he stopped her completely.

“You’d best hold the banister,” he said.

She did as she was told, and he gently moved one of her legs two whole steps higher than the other.

Her laughter completely faded away when he kissed her from behind—light, teasing kisses, moving from her earlobe to her neck to that tender spot between her shoulder blades. All the while he kneaded her bottom with firm, bold fingers. Before long, his open palm caressed the
V
between her legs. She sucked in a breath, the pleasure making her dizzy, especially when his other hand cupped her breast and he rolled its tip between his fingers.

“Duncan,” she moaned, reaching behind her to run her hand over his breeches, frustrated that she couldn’t gain direct access to his hard length. “I can’t take much more.”

“Good,” he whispered against her neck, and teased her by invading her slick core with a finger.

She had to grab the stair railing with both hands again.

But once more, he stopped before she was propelled into ultimate sensual bliss. “I forgot,” he said in that teasing voice that was making her mad with frustration
and
delight. “We have someplace to be.”

He must have known her knees were weak because he picked her up.

“Duncan!” she protested, laughing again.

And then he tossed her facedown over his shoulder, sprinting up the rest of the stairs with her as if she weighed no more than a feather.

“
What
are you doing?” she cried upside down, enjoying the feeling of his shaven jaw contacting her flank.

“Taking you to my lair,” he said on a wicked chuckle. He rubbed her bottom with a loving hand.

Instinctively, she pressed her belly into his shoulder, seeking his heat and hardness. “This isn’t fair.” Her voice was muffled by his jacket. “You’re still dressed.”

“We’ll remedy that shortly.”

He put her down gently in a small, sapphire-blue room with a cheery crackling fire, a gold Aubusson rug, a four-poster bed with matching sapphire silk hangings, a tall bureau, and an escritoire with paper and quill waiting.

She found herself standing in front of a massive framed looking glass that extended from the floor to the ceiling. “I’ve never seen such a looking glass!”

He stood behind her. “It came from one of the halls of Versailles,” he said, observing her in its reflection. “This is where I want you.”

He wrapped his hands around her waist and kissed her shoulder. The glow from the fire illuminated their left sides, but their right sides were lost in darkness. “Look how beautiful you are,” he murmured. “Like a queen.”

“I like this.” She smiled and clasped his hands to her belly. “We look as if we’re in a painting.” She turned to him and kissed him with an open mouth, a primitive drumbeat in her veins, an unspoken need to be claimed by him and to claim him as her own.

They kissed with fevered abandon, their tongues clashing in a lusty sparring match that made her crave his invasion.

Which she knew could never happen.

It can’t,
she told herself.
Because then he’ll
know.

“I’ll like it more when
you’re
undressed,” she whispered in his ear, and kissed the underside of his jaw. It was rough and wonderful.

“That’s a fine idea.” He slid away from her to light a candle on the bureau behind them.

When he turned back, she was eager to remove every stitch on him. He let her begin, his chest out, his back straight, his legs slightly spread, his bare feet firm on the floor. She could tell as she proceeded that he was completely at ease with himself and enjoyed seeing his own body in the mirror.

She found his confidence endearing and so much like a man. She couldn’t blame him for being proud. He was magnificent. And the best part was, his eyes gleamed with desire.

For
her
.

The knowledge made her heady.

But you can’t have him,
she thought.
Not forever. Only
now.

And pushed the thought away.

She was on the floor, her right shoulder to the mirror, when she yanked and yanked his tight breeches until his erection sprang forth. Stopping everything, she took a deep breath. “My goodness,” she said weakly. “I’ve felt you there, but never actually
seen
your … your gift.”

He laughed. “I hope it meets with your approval.”

Her first thought was to grab the taut, proud flesh and kiss its satiny tip. So she did, and finished with a lingering circle of her tongue.

She heard him suck in a breath. Was it pain? Or pleasure?

She looked up and saw him watching her in the looking glass, his eyes smoky with gratification. She peered over her shoulder at their figures in the mirror.

It was an erotic sight, indeed.

Enjoying her new explorations, she reached around and grabbed his buttocks, taking him into her mouth, teasing the length of him with her tongue, and then suckling him gently, drawing him in and out of her mouth. All the while, she cupped the warm, round flesh dangling below, teasing it with her fingers and then nuzzling it with her own lips.

She heard him moan his delight.

“You’re a vixen, Marcia Sherwood,” he managed to say.

“And you love it,” she retreated long enough to murmur.

“God, I do,” he answered.

At which point she blew softly on his rigid sheath, her mouth not touching it, no matter that she sensed him aching for the contact.

“Tease,” he accused her.

She laughed.

“I suppose I had it coming,” he said, and pulled her up beneath her arms.

Gently, he turned her so that she was facing the mirror head-on again, and he was behind her, caressing her from her breasts to her belly and below. “I want to make you mine.” The hard length of him teased her lower back. “First, on the bed. And then here, in front of the looking glass.”

Without waiting for her answer, he lifted her up, carried her to the bed, and laid her on the sapphire coverlet before sprawling next to her, one leg propped, revealing the strong curve of his thigh. He leaned over and swept his hand down her belly. Then he suckled a breast. “I can’t get enough of looking at you—and tasting you.”

He pulled a wisp of hair from her eye. “Marry me, Marcia.”

“Why do you want me to?” She smiled a little smile at him. He was beautiful. Dark and strong and generous.

He grinned. “There is the obvious reason. The practical one.”

“Which is?”

“We’ve reached the point of no return, my lady.” He kissed her nose. “I’ve compromised you. I’m a man of honor, and I want to see that I make it right.”

Oh, God. If he only
knew
. “Is—is that all?”

“That’s a very good reason to marry, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is. But is there anything else?”

He looked at the fire a moment, then returned his gaze to her, his brown eyes steady upon her. “I care for you. Very much. We would make a wonderful family. You. Me. And Joe.”

“You think so?”

He nodded.

She thought so, too. It was a lovely daydream. But daydream it would remain.

She rolled away from him, her heart sick, and stood up. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

What
had
she been thinking? That he’d say he loved her? She restrained a bitter laugh.
Oh, Shakespeare. Thank God for you and your tragedies. They’ve prepared me for my own.

Duncan leaped up. “Where are you going?”

“Leaving.” She walked to the door, past that magnificent looking glass.

“Why?” He went to pick up his breeches and yanked them on.

“Because I need to.” She cradled her chest with her arms, ran from the room, and raced down the stairs, he in hot pursuit. Furiously, she began to gather her underthings and put them back on.

He hovered over her. “If you marry me, you can be happy,” he assured her. “I
promise
to make you happy.”

“Please,” she said, a stocking dangling in her hand. “Leave me alone.”

The silence in the room dragged on. She fumbled with her ties. He pulled on his shirt. She gave up on her ties—refusing to ask for help—and strode to the entrance hall, where she grabbed her cloak and flung it over her shoulders.

He came after her, his shirt dangling open at the neck and down to his belly, exposing black curls and a plane of hard muscle. “You’re not in the proper frame of mind to discuss this.”

Suddenly, he sounded like the Duncan of old: bossy and cool.

“I most certainly am,” she retorted and tied her cloak beneath her chin. “I’m glad I came tonight. Now I know exactly what to do. Return to Oak Hall.”

“Marcia.”

“I know you like to fix things, Duncan. But some things can’t be fixed.” She opened the door and left without shutting it behind her and ran to the hackney.

“Hurry and leave,” she called to the driver.

She got in and faced the far window. Within seconds, she heard the crack of a whip.

And her fantasy was all over.

Chapter Twenty-nine

The next afternoon, Duncan found himself helping Margaret with her lessons on the pianoforte.

“How is it, my lord,” she said, “that a gentleman with hands as big as yours can play so lightly, yet when I play, I sound as if I’m all thumbs?”

“It takes practice.” He smiled, but his heart wasn’t in it. “I hope you know you can practice as often as you like. I trust you’ll get your chores done.”

“You’re too kind, my lord,” she said.

“No I’m not.” He played a few minor chords. “I’m really not, Margaret.”

The sound of the dismal chords lingered.

“Lord Chadwick,” she whispered, “what’s wrong?”

He inhaled a breath and exhaled slowly. “Women troubles.”

“Oh, dear. Is it … Lady Marcia?’

He nodded slowly.

“She’d be a fool not to care for you.” Margaret’s tone was huffy on his behalf. “You’d never dishonor her. You’d cherish her and protect her—”

She swallowed fiercely.

Duncan laid a hand on her arm. “I’m a very lucky man to have such a loyal member of the household.”

“We’re all loyal to you, Lord Chadwick. No matter what happens—”

And out of the blue, her eyes filled with tears.

Duncan’s hands froze on the keys. “What?” he asked. “What’s wrong?” He was confused. And panicked again. As panicked as he’d been with Aislinn.

The maid merely sat on the bench, her lower lip trembling.

“Margaret,”
he urged her. “Speak.”

She inhaled a deep breath. “I have something terrible to tell you, my lord, and I don’t think I can hold it in any longer.”

He braced himself. “Please don’t tell me you’re leaving, too.”

“Of course not. I told you, didn’t I? I’m loyal. You deserve my loyalty. It’s just that sometimes things happen, and everything you thought you knew about yourself and the world is wrong. I’m loyal to you, but I’m not happy anymore. And I want to be.” She looked over his head at a sputtering candle on the mantel.

“You’re not happy?”

She nodded quickly. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

“What happened? Just say it. I won’t be angry with you.”

“All right.” She swallowed.

He needed to forget his own troubles and become a good listener and understanding employer.

“Your brother…” She trailed off, misery in her eyes.

“My
brother
?” His heart began a wild ride of heat and hostility. “Has my brother bothered you?”

“No,” she whispered.

Thank God. His shoulders sank down a little.

“But he did hurt someone I care about,” Margaret said. “I know
you
care about her, too.”

Hurt someone?

Another woman?

“What did he do?” Duncan couldn’t keep a murderous trembling from his voice. “And to whom?”

“It was Aislinn—”

Aislinn.

“He broke her heart.” There was anguish in Margaret’s eyes.

Dear God, not Aislinn.

All his renewed hopes about Finn crumbled like a tower of cards.

Aislinn was a lovely girl in her mid-twenties. Of course she’d be swayed by Finn’s charm. Duncan remembered the night he’d told Finn she was leaving. How casually his brother had taken the news.

He thought back over his conversation with Aislinn about her departure. Should he have known to ask? Should he have been able to tell that she’d been lying?

He was shaken, vastly shaken, and guilt at his obtuseness gnawed at him. “Why didn’t she tell me?”

“She didn’t want you to know,” said Margaret. “She was afraid. Not of you. But afraid to disappoint you.”

“I assume, then, she doesn’t have a sick sister.”

Margaret shook her head. “Nor any family left to go to in Drumree. I promise you, she felt guilty lying to you about that. The last thing she wants is your money. But she didn’t see a way out of the lie.”

“I understand.” His tone was grave. “And I don’t blame her in the least.” He paused, listening to the sounds of Ruby back in the kitchens, singing. “When did all this happen?”

The maid seemed to pick up a bit of her old spirit. “He saw her here the first night he returned to London. And the second time was when you brought him to meet Joe. I think he was here one more time—you were out—and it was after that time that he left her a note and asked her to meet him. He was so handsome, my lord. And she was flattered.”